


I Like You A Latté

by xivz



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Flirting, Baz is a bad flirt, Carry On Secret Snowflake Exchange, Coffee Shops, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Mild Language, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Simon has no chill, Simon has no filter, Simon might be into negging, awkward boys, barista!baz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28093335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/pseuds/xivz
Summary: Simon Snow is just your average university student. He goes to class and work, hangs out with his friends, and just happens to have a small crush on his (probably straight) barista.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 34
Kudos: 192
Collections: Secret Snowflake 2020





	I Like You A Latté

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ampithoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ampithoe/gifts).



> Thank you **[aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias)** for being my awesome beta.

**SIMON**

I’m not a stalker. I’m _not_. 

Maybe that doesn’t sound convincing, but Shepard keeps insisting that what I’m doing isn’t quite alright and Penny says that I should just get my head out of my arse. Agatha says I should just act on my fucking feelings.... But, yeah. While I appreciate my friends, their opinions on this matter are—

Wait. 

Let me start from the beginning. 

There’s this bloke. 

(Okay, so maybe that’s not much better...it doesn’t explain the stalking-not-stalking issue that I’ve found myself in, but it’s the truth.) 

He’s—well—he’s tall and tanned and looks like a bloody watch ad model even when he’s not wearing a watch. He’s so fit that I almost wanted to punch him the first time that I laid eyes on him. And, the thing is, I can look at him all day and maybe—possibly—tend to do so whenever I have the free time. 

You see, he works at a café near my uni called _Natasha’s_. 

It’s not as if I staked out the place and decided ‘ah, yes, my next victim.’ No. I met him purely by accident.

* * *

It’s only my fourth day of uni, and it’s raining (in London, what a surprise) and I forgot my brolly, which is typical of me. I’m fairly sure I’d forget my head if it weren’t for Penny. Unfortunately, the skies decide to open up when I’ve already left campus and have begun my trek to the tube. It’s awful. Usually, London has some type of misty rain, which isn’t too bad as it is annoying, but right now it’s a downpour. 

My hair’s sticking to my face and my shirt is clinging to my torso and I hate it. I hate it so fucking much. My laptop’s in my backpack and I’m worried about it getting wet. (I just managed to buy it brand new over the summer—it’s currently my pride and joy).

There’s a café on the street corner that I’ve passed by every day this week. So I run, my trainers slapping the pavement, and avoid becoming soaked to the bone as I stumble my way towards a dry place where I can wait out the storm.

 _Natasha’s_ is fairly empty. There’s a red-headed bloke in the corner with giant earphones on, tapping away on his laptop, and in the booth not too far from him is a woman with textbooks open on the table and writing in a notebook. That makes sense. It’s the type of place you’d expect university students to study and do work. 

“Either buy something or leave, you can’t loiter here.” 

It’s then that I noticed the barista—his voice is strong and crisp and his accent posh. 

My feet take me up to the counter without my brain ordering them to. I’m not disappointed when I get to see him up close.

His name tag reads _Basil_ , which I find cute. He doesn’t look like a Basil—it’s such a soft name for a man who comes across as so fierce. The sight of him causes my heart to skip a beat and I feel my face flush. 

His eyes catch me off guard. They’re the colour of the ocean during a storm. I’ve never seen eyes like his before. 

I should order something. I should get a hot drink and a snack. I should—

“Your eyes are pretty,” I blurt—because I never fucking think before I speak. 

Basil stares at me for a moment, his skin flushing a soft pink that would be hardly noticeable—if it weren’t for the fact that I’m looking at him so intently. 

“Yours are a dull blue,” he says. 

What? 

I can feel myself scowl at him. I don’t mean to, but I don’t have much control over my facial expression. Honestly, I don’t have control of much in my life. 

“Are you always this much of a tosser?” 

Basil sneers at me, showing off his perfect teeth. “Either order something or leave.” 

I order a scone and a caramel latté. (I don’t even like coffee.)

* * *

The second time I make my way into the shop, it’s after a grueling lecture that’s left me in such a state I’m not sure I’m human anymore. I wish I could say that I forgot all about the boy behind the till, but that would be a lie. 

He’s there again, reading from a textbook as I approach. His hair is in a sloppy bun at the nape of his neck, but there are errant strands that frame his chiseled face. It’s a good look. A very good look. I want to tug on his hair. Actually the urge is so strong that I have to stick my hands into my pockets. 

I don’t think he’s paying much attention to who’s entering the café until he looks up and our eyes meet. 

I watch his widen a bit with recognition (that sends a thrill through me) before he slaps on a frown.

“What do you want?” (Such stellar customer service skills.) 

“Do you talk to all of your patrons that way?” I ask though I’m staring at the pastry display as I say it. I forgot my lunch at the flat on my way to classes and am now officially starving. I hate spending money unnecessarily, but everything looks good and I want to eat it all. “I like your hair like that, by the way. It looks nice.” 

There’s a pause in our conversation (if you can call it that) as if Basil is absorbing what I said and processing. I don’t know why I feel the urge to pay him compliments—I mean, he’s handsome but he’s also a git. 

“What do you know about nice hair? Do you even own a comb?” he asks, and when I look up that sneer is back. I want to kiss it off of his face. 

He’s insulted me twice now and I just want to put my hands on him. There may be something inherently wrong with me. I thrive off of his insults. Honestly, I didn’t think I was into negging, and I should probably talk to my therapist about this when given the chance. 

This time I order a muffin and hot chocolate. I sit in a corner booth, one where I can spy on him perfectly. I take my coursework out and give it some of my attention, although I’m highly aware of Basil. He’s the only other person in the café, but I’d think I’d notice him regardless. 

* * *

**BASIL**

“Loverboy is back,” Dev says to me with a grin on his face that I hate. He’s such a twat.

I glance out of the window and see Golden Boy walking towards the café. Only, unlike all the other times before, he’s accompanied by a beautiful blonde girl. She’s talking to him with a soft smile on her face—it widens when he opens the door for her. 

The lunch rush just died down so the café is empty—it’s always empty whenever he strolls in. I still don’t know his name, but he’s been coming in at least twice a week for three weeks. He orders something different every time, then sits in a booth and pretends to do his coursework while he watches me. His blue eyes are always on me, staring at me as if I fascinate him. (As if I’m a piece of art on display for him.) And he’s _always_ complimenting me. 

Do you know what doesn’t help? Is that he’s the most attractive person I have ever laid eyes upon. He’s broad. He’s got the type of shoulders that make you want to dig your hands in and hold on for dear life. Tousled bronze curls that fall over his forehead and his faded undercut has my hands itching to touch it. His neck is so fucking long that I want to sink my teeth into it like a bloody vampire, and then I want to suck on his showy Adam’s apple.

Naturally, he induces gay panic™, and instead of flirting back like a _normal person_ —I insult him. Every. Fucking. Time. It’s mortifying. 

“I’m taking my break,” Dev says before I can protest. 

He does this often too. He thinks it’s funny to watch me suffer every time this customer comes in. He eavesdrops on our conversations (can they be called that?) from the back and often texts Niall them verbatim. 

The girl gives me a coquettish look, something that causes my stomach to squirm. Her butter-blonde hair is parted in the middle of her crown (as if she’s a fucking Kardashian), and it falls pin-straight towards her narrow waist. She’s prettier up close, modelesque even. 

“How do you do?” she asks. Her voice is almost breathy—sultry. This is a woman who’s used to men falling over themselves for her. 

I paste on a saccharine smile in response and lean forward a bit. I can handle women flirting with me. I know how to speak to them. 

“I’m doing better now. How may I help you?”

The Golden Boy shifts from foot to foot. He looks uncomfortable. His face is splotched in a blush (it often is). His complexion is ruddy, although it’s hardly noticeable underneath the constellation of freckles on his face or the moles on his cheek. I want to lick him.

Maybe this is his girlfriend. Maybe I misread all of our prior run-ins and he’s just an awkward lump who says the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe he’s so comfortable in his heterosexual masculinity that he has no issues complimenting another man about his eyes, or hair, or height.

He looks as if he wants to bolt. It makes me wonder what he’s thinking about. What compliment he feels the need to slap me with today. 

I write the girl's order on a cup before giving him my attention. I try not to fully look at him—it’s too much. _He’s_ too much. 

We’re staring at each other—it’s something that we do often. 

(I wonder sometimes, what he’d do if I were to reach across the counter and place my hand on him. Anywhere on him. Maybe on his freckled forearm. What would he do if I placed my fingertips on his neck? What would he do if I leaned over and kissed him?)

“Are you going to order?” I finally ask to break the heavy silence.

He opens his mouth and takes in a breath (mouth breather). “I—you—”

He’s blustering. He does this like no one else I’ve ever met. 

I can’t help but arch a brow at him impatiently. “Shall I get started on the lady’s beverage while you find your words?”

“You’re just—you’re fit!” he finally stammers out. 

I pause in the middle of picking up the cup I wrote on for the girl. He thinks I’m fit? I shouldn’t be surprised, but—I just—he’s so—

Slowly, almost against my control, I put the cup back down on the counter, pivot around, and barge into the back room. Leaving behind an amused blonde woman and her idiot (handsome) companion. 

Dev doesn’t argue with me when I point the way I came from. He’s still on his break, but something inside of me has broken. 

Golden Boy thinks I’m fit. 

I sit down on an empty milk crate—Dev’s usual seat. There’s a table in here, and a desk with a computer, but my knees feel as if they’re about to give out. Right now, I’ll sit anywhere. 

I’m such a fucking disaster. A cute boy thinks I’m attractive and I lose all composure. Pathetic. 

“Oi, wanker, he’s gone,” Dev says from the swinging door that leads to the front of the café. 

I take in a deep breath and try to pull my shit together. It’s several minutes before I can stand and make my way back to the counter. At least Dev has been true to his word—the café is empty. I’m relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“His name is Simon, by the way,” Dev says as he rinses the blender that he used for whatever concoction Golden Boy ordered. “Simon Snow.”

It takes my brain a moment to catch up. Then it sinks in. _A name_. 

Golden Boy is Simon Snow.

His name sounds like something from a fucking fairytale. 

“How did you find that out?” I ask as I take a cloth to wipe down the already immaculate tables. 

“I asked,” Dev says, and I can practically hear him rolling his eyes at me. 

It doesn’t matter, because now I have a name to go with the face. 

_Simon_. 

The thought of him causes my stomach to erupt with butterflies. 

* * *

**SIMON**

“Simon, come on. You’re not even pretending to do your work,” Penny says from across from me. 

We’re studying in the campus library. Well… she’s studying, I have my head in my arms. It’s been a week since I’ve last visited _Natasha’s_. 

At first, I was worried that I freaked Basil out—I mean, that was a bit strong, yeah? So I stayed away, just in case he’s debating filing a harassment case against me. 

But now I’m just pissed off. Is he so queerphobic that a compliment sets him off like that? Then there’s the fact that he openly flirted with Agatha! I mean, if Basil (no, fuck that, he’s Baz now.) is straight then he should just say something. I’m an amicable bloke, I can handle rejection. He’s such an arse.

“I don’t want to,” I mumble. 

Penny sighs before closing her textbook loudly. She’s packing up her things, which means we’re done for the day. Thank Christ. I don’t know how much longer I would’ve been able to sit there without falling asleep. 

I follow her without saying much. 

The sun’s already beginning to set, which means that we were studying for at least three hours. No wonder I stopped after a bit. 

“Want to get a cuppa before going home?” Penny asks me as she adjusts the strap of her messenger bag “I know a place nearby that has delicious sour cherry scones.”

The offer of food always perks me up, and Penny knows this. Food is probably my greatest weakness. I can’t help but nod in agreement and then follow her off-campus. 

We’re nearly at our tube stop when Penny veers to the right and crosses the road—she didn’t even wait for the lights to change. I have to scramble to catch up. 

_Natasha’s_ is before us. I almost swear. Of course she’d take me here. (In fact, I’m willing to bet that Agatha said something to her about what happened the last time we were here.) 

“ _Penny_!” I hiss at her through clenched teeth. She, of course, ignores me as she strolls right in. As if it’s no big deal!

“Welcome!” a kind voice greets us as soon as the bell chimes above. There’s a younger bloke behind the counter. I’ve never seen him before. He’s fit, but in a boy-band type way, with frosted tips in his hair as if it’s the early 2000s. “How may I help you?”

His name tag says, _Marcus_. He’s probably in sixth form by the looks of him. 

Penny puts in her order and asks for a half dozen of their sour cherry scones, before turning towards me. 

I want to ask where Baz is. I mean, I suppose it’s normal that he only works certain shifts, but I’ve gotten so used to seeing him that I’m disappointed. And it’s not as if I should be, he’s a right tit to me. 

Still, I want to see him. 

“Earl Gray,” I say once I realize that both Penny and Marcus are staring at me, waiting for me to order.

He takes care of us quickly, handing us our beverages with a cheerful smile. 

When I take a sip of my tea, it’s too milky.

* * *

It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Baz. 

I wish I could just forget about him. Instead, he’s in my head with his stupid hair and stupid eyes and stupid sneer. I hate how I feel right now. I barely know him, but I feel as if something’s missing. Maybe it’s the missed opportunity. 

It’s nearly November now, which means Christmas is just around the corner. For me, that mainly means exams and revision and the added stress of trying to pass all my courses.

I’m at work, which is painfully slow. 

The university bookstore is usually slow unless it’s the start of the new term or a student loses something and needs a new one ASAP. I’m supposed to be doing inventory, but I’m actually playing Among Us on my phone from my perch behind the till. 

My boss, Ebb, is in the back somewhere doing whatever it is that bosses do. (Probably texting her girlfriend.)

The bell chimes as a student walks in. I look up from my phone to see if it’s someone who needs help. It’s only Shepard, though. 

When I glance back down at my game it’s to see my space bean being stabbed to death. Damn, and I just finished my tasks. I exit the app and put my mobile away. Shepard is already leaning against the other side of the checkout counter, a kind smile on his face. 

Shepard is an American exchange student here for his Master’s. I’m not sure how we became friends and I don’t really understand what he’s studying, but I like him. 

“When do you get off work?” he asks. The pins on his denim jacket are reflecting the fluorescent lighting. I can barely see the Mothman pin that he always wears with pride. 

“Ten minutes,” I say. 

It’s almost closing, and since no one other than Shepard has entered the shop, it’ll be easy to lock up and leave. Hell, Ebb would allow me to leave now if I asked. It’s so slow. I know once December hits, it’ll get busy for the Spring term, but I kind of enjoy the quiet. It gives me time to do homework.

“Sweet,” Shepard says. “I’m meeting up with a classmate for dinner but I told him I was bringing a friend—want to come?”

“I’m not going to be a third wheel,” I say. 

Shepard grins. “It’s not like that!”

I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. He only grins brighter. 

“You’ll like him. He’s in my French and Francophone Language and Literature seminar, but he’s your age, so he’s not an old man like me.” Shepard is barely three years my senior. 

For a moment I wonder if his friend is Baz. He looks like someone who speaks French. (The thought causes a shiver to run down my spine.) (I’d love him to speak French to me.) (Baz, that is. Not Shepard.)

“Nah. I need to finish an essay for tomorrow,” I say with a shake of my head. “You have fun.”

“Alright, bud, I’ll see you later!” Shepard says before he leaves. It was kind of him to invite me, but I’m not in the mood to socialize. Not really. I just want to lie down on the sofa and drink some cider while watching Queer Eye. After my essay is written.

* * *

**BASIL**

Two weeks. 

It’s the longest I’ve haven’t seen him since before I knew of his existence. 

As soon as Dev gave me his name I looked up Simon Snow. I found his Instagram (snowcone61) and his Snapchat (_dragonboyy). I found out who his friends are. I found out where he works. 

I’m not a stalker. 

I’m truly not, but all of his information is so easily accessible that I can’t help myself. His Instagram is public, so I spend the better part of an hour scrolling through it just to see his stupid face. I almost messaged him, but then I stopped myself. 

It’s one thing to look someone up, it’s another to slide into their DMs unwarranted. Plus, there’s always the chance that he wants nothing to do with me.I know he’s been avoiding the café—I’ve seen him pass by a few times on the way to the underground. 

I’m alone in the café tonight, but that’s just as well. It’s a Wednesday and nearly nine at night. I highly doubt there’s going to be a last-minute rush. I sent Dev home early and began cleaning up. Now, there are only a few more minutes until I can lock the door. 

My back is turned when the bell chimes and I internally groan. Of course, someone would want something ten minutes until closing. I really shouldn’t be surprised. 

What does make me pause is the sight of Simon Snow. His face is flushed and his hair windswept. 

“Snow,” I say, although I don’t have much else to add to it. What _can_ I say? Realistically, he’s a stranger to me. A handsome, idiotic, blustering, stranger who comes in twice a week or so and watches me work. I should be turned off by him, I should be calling the authorities, I should’ve been glad that he stopped coming into my aunt's café––but I’m not. 

I’m scrambling for words. He’s here for a reason, probably for a beverage (we’ve run out of pastries).

“Baz,” Snow says. ( _Baz?_ ) He swallows and it’s an entire production. “I—uh—I wanted to—uh—apologize? For—if—I made you uncomfortable all the others time that I’ve—that I’ve come in here.”

His ears are the same shade of red as the henley that he’s wearing. 

Wait. 

What?

“I understand if you’re—uh—straight? Sorry if I came on too strong. That was wrong of me,” he continues. 

“Stop talking,” I say, and I pinch the bridge of my nose to gain my bearings. 

He’s apologizing? For paying me compliments? For attempting to flirt with me? (This shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.) 

“Sorry.” His voice sounds small and, when I look at him, he’s staring down at his trainers. 

“No,” I sigh. My heart is in my throat. Golden Boy is just...he’s precious. “I’m gay.”

“Oh.” Snow’s blue eyes are wide as he peers up at me from beneath his lashes. 

“And,” I grit my teeth. I can feel my face heating up. Being honest like this is almost painful, “I… _enjoy_ your attention.”

“ _Oh!_ ” His blush is spreading down to his neck and lower than I can see. I can’t help but wonder how far down it goes. I watch as he runs a hand through his unruly bronze hair and bites his lower lip until it’s red and puffy. (I want it in my mouth.) “So, fuck. Can I get your number?”

“What?”

“Your phone number? Can I have it?” Snow asks again, only more slowly. 

His chin juts out toward me as if he’s ready for a fight. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone this much in my life. 

I can’t help but tuck an errant strand of my hair behind my ear. It’s the only sign of my fidgeting. “I—We don’t even know each other.”

Snow grins and me and it’s blinding. He has a dimple on his left cheek. “That’s the point. So we can get to know each other. I’d like to take you out some time.”

Who is this confident creature before me? What happened to the boy who would blurt out whatever came to mind at me? Unless this is what he’s been thinking of. Is this what he’s been thinking of? Taking me out on a—

“As in a date?” I ask. This better not be a bros-being-bros situation. I’d lose my shit if it was.

He’s still showing off all of his teeth. He chuckles. “Yes, Baz. I want to date you.”

I stare at him for a long moment before giving him my phone number. 

* * *

**SIMON**

It’s been six months.

Not since I’ve had to hide the body! (Our story didn’t turn out like that.) No, it’s been half a year since I—well, since _we_ —er—I suppose I should say that I have managed to land myself a stable boyfriend. 

Our first date was an unmitigated disaster which landed with me falling down a flight of stairs. (That’s a story for another day.) We worked through it, and it’s been mostly good. So good. 

The worst thing that I’ve had to deal with are the knowing looks that my friends—and his friends—throw our way whenever they see us together. Which is fair. Baz and I both deserve that, but it doesn’t matter. None of that matters, because there’s this bloke. 

And I’m falling desperately in love with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on **[tumblr](https://xivz.tumblr.com/)**!


End file.
